


Drawing lines

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s12e06 Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox, Tattoos, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-07 02:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16845688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: "I think you and Alicia should get tattoos."





	Drawing lines

“I meant to say,” Sam says. “That is. I should have said, at the house, at Asa’s place, before we left. I think you and Alicia should get tattoos." 

Max’s eyes narrow for a second before his face relaxes into a smile. “Oh yeah?” he says. “Anything particular you had in mind?” 

Sam _isn’t_ the bumbling romantic embarrassment that Dean seems to think him but there’s something about this guy which makes him feel teenage, stupid and clumsy and too big for his skin. Which is dumb as fuck, considering that Max is like, what, must be coming on for ten years younger than him. Eight years, maybe. Regardless, Sam should be cooler than this. 

He should be, but he isn’t, so when Max asks about the tattoo he doesn’t produce the smooth line that he’ll no doubt think of in the shower in two days’ time. Instead, he blushes and stammers and scratches the back of his head, and answers Max’s joking question with a straight response. “Yeah,” he says, and he slides a napkin towards him over the table and digs a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket. “Something like this.” 

Seeing Sam’s seriousness, Max frowns, and watches as he sketches a wonky approximation of the symbol that he first drew out for Dean, in a bar not dissimilar to this one, almost ten years ago. 

“It’s not, uh, it’s not fancy,” Sam says. “But it works.” 

Max puts his fingertips to the edge of the napkin, just brushing Sam’s. They linger there a moment before Sam moves his hand, allowing Max to take hold of the napkin. Max picks it up and holds it in front of him, rotates it, takes a look. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can see that it would.” He looks at Sam over the folded paper, not kidding now but earnest. “You have this?” 

Good question. 

It’s the first thing that Sam would ask, himself, the obvious thing and he _knew_ Max would say it but he still finds himself lost for words. He looks down at the symbol, blue lines curving familiar, looks at Max’s elegant fingers framing the shape. He takes a breath, looks up again to meet Max’s eyes. 

“Dean has it,” he says. “I, uh. I lost mine.” 

Max’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. He’s not stupid. Sam can see him considering the implications; can see him choosing not to ask. This is one of the things Sam likes about Max. It’s refreshing to be around somebody who doesn’t take it personally when Sam has secrets. Perversely, it makes him more inclined to share. He wonders. Could he tell Max about Gadreel? The thought tightens his chest, makes his thoughts swim dizzy. He hasn’t really ever explained it, not to anybody. Charlie picked up bits of it, but not enough to understand. At least. Sam hopes that was it. He remembers again Max and Alicia frowning up at Elvis, after he asked about Lucifer; their instant, easy intervention in Sam’s defence. “Seriously, dude,” Max had told the guy. “Back off.” 

Jeez. No wonder Sam feels like a teenager. Fucking… damsel in distress. But. 

“You gonna get it redone?” Max asks, interrupting Sam’s fantasies. 

“Uh,” says Sam. He’s been meaning to. He has. But it’s so bound up with all the shit that surrounded its removal that he hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it; finds himself both perversely anxious of going under the needle (the needles in his _brain_ and Crowley twisting them, clinical) and absolutely unwilling to mention it to Dean. If he said something now then Dean would probably lay into him for not having fixed the thing fricking two and a half years ago. “Christ, Sammy,” he’d say, the kind of angry that he gets when Sam puts himself in jeopardy. “Christ, Sammy, what the fuck did you think you were playing at?” Sam’s on a good run, lately, of not disappointing. He’d really like not to rock the boat. 

Max is studying him, a focused golden-green gaze that doesn’t help Sam’s thought process. As Sam stutters and chokes, he shakes his head a little, grins easy, breaks the tension. “I just have some suggestions for improvement,” he says. 

“Oh yeah?” says Sam. 

“Yeah,” says Max, and he reaches for the pen.


End file.
